The Flayed Man Sings
by SteelAndSnow
Summary: Ceran Bolton is the presumed baseborn son of Roose Bolton. From a young age, he has been noted for being gifted, far more than his brothers Domeric and Ramsay. With his intellect in politics and battle strategy to match even the famed Imp of Casterly Rock, how will his influence change the outcome of the War of Five Kings and the Great War against the Other? Rated T for now / M(?)
1. Chapter 1

**The Flayed Man Sings**

 **Roose Bolton**

The babe's cries were as sharp as steel, piercing through the cold of the Dreadfort.

Roose Bolton was nothing if not calculative. He knew the chances of the boy he held in his hands being of his blood were very slim, and his 'cousin' Ameria Bolton most likely didn't exist at all.

But his _eyes_. The grey, almost colorless eyes were what made him hesitate to throw the babe over the ramparts or feed him to the hounds. It was true that many northern men had eyes of grey, but this attraction he felt, he was sure that the infant had the eyes of a Bolton. And the child was _his_ to do with as he pleased.

 _Mine_.

"Mine." He would raise this child, along with his two sons Domeric and Ramsay, and they would bring Westeros to its knees.

 **Ramsay Snow**

"Father..." The words felt weird, almost alien to him.

"If you feel that you are unable to follow your brothers, then you may quit. But no son of mine will live long without knowledge of our history."

"Domeric has been groomed for lordship since birth, Ceran is a prodigy. How am I to compete with them?"

"The Lannisters of Casterly Rock are as rich as their mines can yield, the Tyrells of Highgarden have coffers filled to the brim for all their fields reap. Nothing in life is fair, boy. If we are to gain anything in this world, we need to be able to take it. You must be ruthless. You must always be seven steps ahead. Weakness cannot be tolerated, but stupidity even less so. Yes, Domeric will someday take my place as Lord of the Dreadfort, and Ceran is brilliant in his own way. But does that mean that you can't even try?" Roose Bolton said. in his quiet yet dominating voice.

 _The Lord's Decree_. Ramsay thought, bitterly.

It had been 14 years since Ramsay's mother, a miller, gave him to Roose Bolton. Since then, he had been raised alongside his older brothers Domeric Bolton, and Ceran Snow. He couldn't recall much of his mother, a trait that he shared with his brothers. Domeric was the son of Lady Bethany Ryswell, and could hear of her from the few servants that remembered her. He could play the harp quite well, which was something that Lady Ryswell was known for.

 _The reason why Lord Bolton loved her_.

Ramsay himself was born, not from any form of love but from the lust of the Lord of Dreadfort.

 _Lust. No no, it would be better to call it spite. Or even rage. Roose Bolton never feels lust, or even love_.

Well, except for that Lady Ryswell. He loved her. It was well known that Lord Bolton loved his wife very much. Before she died, of course.

"Are you listening to me?" said Roose.

"Yes, my lord. I apologize for my insolence."

Bolton looked unimpressed, but nodded. A signal that he no longer required his presence. With a bow, Ramsay left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

"I see that the Bastard of Bolton has been beaten by his own daddy?" A voice from behind said.

Ramsay turned around, and was met with a sudden kiss from his love and 'betrothed', Myranda. The kennelmaster's daughter, a servant girl and Ramsay's favorite bedwarmer. With him being a bastard, he had often contemplated on what it would be like to marry her, something of which she herself was quite looking forward to.

"Shut up, you know I could have you flayed for that."

"Oh but you'd _never_ flay me. We both know that you're too in love with me to do so." She laughed, pressing his head against her chest.

"Don't tempt me. I'm sure that... I'd have quite an _interesting time_ cutting you, especially _here_." He bit down on her right breast, hard but not enough to draw blood.

She squealed, swatting his shoulder and pushing him away. Ramsay laughed, a cold cackle echoing throughout the hall.

It was another minute of playful wrestling between them before she spoke again. "What is he planning for your future?"

"I'll likely be forced to either join the Night's Watch or perhaps marry some minor lord's bastard daughter. Bah, I'll fuck her bloody and give her to the hounds." he said.

"You can't solve everything with feeding people to your hounds. My father is having trouble sleeping thanks to the _snacks_ you give the beasts."

"Your father can go feed himself to the dogs before I let him hurt them." he growled.

"I'm tempted to do so myself." she whispered into his ear.

"Oh, and that's why I love you." They kissed, tongues wrestling for domination. But Ramsay would win, as he always had.

Myranda may be his lover, but it was never wise to make him angry. And Ramsay was always angry, unless he won.

 **Ceran Snow**

"Oh, and that's why I love you." the voice of his half-brother Ramsay and a woman just outside the door of Lord Bolton's solar didn't surprise Ceran in the slightest. Though Ramsay knew the risks he was taking, bringing the kennelmaster's daughter into his bed, he would never stop. Frankly, it irritated Ceran, for he had the displeasure of being in the next room whenever Ramsay and Myranda were having their _sessions_.

Ceran took in a deep breathe, and turned the corner. The sight of the two lovers in each other's arms, fiercely having at each other's mouths caused him to swear.

Not that Myranda wasn't a comely woman. More than once, Ceran caught himself thinking about her.

 _But she's half mad. More so when she's with Ramsay_.

"Oi, you mind?", Ceran barked.

He sent them off with a few choice words, and stopped in front of the door. After checking to see that nobody was behind him, he knocked 3 times in a way Lord Bolton would recognize.

"Come in."

Ceran opened the door, and bowed before the Lord of the Dreadfort. "My lord."

Roose sighed, and motioned for Ceran to sit in one of the ash wood chairs. "Domeric and Ramsay were both absent for Maester Tybald's lesson on poisons. Domeric was found with his harp, playing for the wenches in town. Ramsay was in the kennels, playing with his dogs.", he said sourly.

"My apologies, my lord. I shall make sure that my brothers attend their lessons faithfully."

"I'd be more like to believe you if you told me you'd raise Rhaegar Targaryen from the dead. No, I can't ask that of you.", Roose grumbled.

Ceran bit his lip. "What is your bidding, my lord?"

Roose stared at his bastard son, before bending slowly to retrieve a jumble of documents from a lower drawer. "For this."

He tossed on to the desk, what looked to be... legitimization papers?

"Yes, these are what you think them to be. I had them signed by King Robert- or rather his Hand, Jon Arryn."

It was then Ceran noticed a crucial detail. There was only one set of papers. Only one of the Bolton bastards was to be legitimized. "Which one of us is it?"

Roose almost looked amused at Ceran's question, his face seemingly goading him to make a presumption.

"Is it me?"

For a minute, Ceran could see a look of hesitation on Roose's face before he slowly shook his head. "No, they are not."

Ceran's heart sank.

For years, he had done everything to make sure that he never displeased his father, always with a heart filled with the hope that he would one day be legitimized as a true son of Roose Bolton, to one day stand as tall as Domeric stood in the castle. And here he was, being denied an opportunity that would be given to his rather unworthy brother.

"I- I see. My lord, I respect your decision and hope that Ramsay makes you a proud father." Ceran bowed.

Just then, an unexpected, almost unfamiliar sound rang throughout the solar, the sound of Roose Bolton's laughter. At the look of confusion on Ceran's face, Roose quickly bent down to retrieve another set of documents, this one bigger in size and with the Kings Seal on more than one page.

"And you would think that there was nothing else I would have for you." Roose unwrapped the think cord before passing the documents over to Ceran. "Read it, boy."

Ceran picked up the topmost page, and began to read it aloud.

 _In the name of King Robert, First of His Name. King of the Andals and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm._

 _I, Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, announce the birth of another House of nobility, vassal of Bolton and sworn to service of the crown._

 _Ceran, natural son of Lord Roose Bolton, shall take up the sigil of his choosing, shall have the abandoned castle of Necem's Hold as his seat._

 _May the Seven give him wisdom and justice for his people._

 _-Jon Arryn of the Vale, Hand of the King_

 **A/N: I'd appreciate any feedback anyone would have for me through a review. This story will (hopefully) be updated more frequently than "House Dihorn" with longer chapters. Thanks!**

 **~SteelAndSnow**


	2. Chapter 2

**The Flayed Man Sings**

 **Ceran**

The ascension from bastard to lord wasn't as easy as expected. The amount of paperwork that Roose Bolton had to go through, to begin the reconstruction of most of Necem's Hold, an abandoned castle some hours away from the Dreadfort. When asked if he wanted to change the name of the castle, Ceran thought about it before politely denying. At one point in history, Necem's Hold as the seat of power for some old, extinct House, and Ceran didn't want to disturb their spirits any further than he had to.

Of course, Ramsay and Domeric weren't exactly being that much helpful either.

"I get to be a Bolton, and you're- what was your new name again?"

"Ceran Direhill, Lord of Necem's Hold."

"Ceran the Bastard, Bastard of Bolton I say to that.", Ramsay cackled.

Ramsay's legitimization ceremony had taken place earlier that day, along with the announcement of Ceran's lordship and bestowing of a castle. While at first, Ramsay had been overwhelmed with jealousy, after hearing of what a rundown state that Necem's Hold was in, and how Ceran wouldn't be back for many years, Ramsay's mood gradually improved.

"Who are you going to take with you?", Domeric asked.

"I'll likely take about a hundred Bolton- now Direhill soldiers with me to make sure nobody has any notion of attacking us. Lord Bolton has promised me half that many workers to do their best to fortify and patch up Necem's Hold, and there are already about 20 workers there already. As for a town, there happens to already be one there, and when I'm settled comfortably enough I'll begin to collect taxes.", Ceran replied.

Domeric nodded, before launching another question, "Why are you naming your House, Direhill?"

Ceran laughed, Domeric's question had amused him. "Well, before I came to be lord of the castle, many hundred years ago in fact, there ruled a House called Direhorn at Necem's Hold. They ruled fine for generations, before a feud broke out between Rickon Direhorn and Royce Bolton VI. After a decade of minor clashes, Royce finally mustered his men and stormed Necem's Hold. And to this day, that castle has been abandoned, used by bandits if ever. To honor the once noble House of Necem's Hold, I've decided to name my own House after the Direhorns of the past."

"You were ever the one for the dramatics."

"Good ser, that would be you." For a while, they took the time to enjoy each other's presence, But the arrival of a messenger, a rather fat one, interrupted their silence.

Domeric managed a smile. "Look at us. One day we'll each be lords of our own castles." He tried to quietly wipe away the tear from his face, though Ceran noticed.

Ramsay said nothing, but his expression betrayed his feelings of both bitterness and guilt.

"But we'll always be brothers." Ceran brought his older brothers in for a hug, and once again the two siblings felt the love for each other, a bond to last a millennia.

* * *

And so began the reconstruction of Necem's Hold.

For a bit of history, to those are unfamiliar of the castle and House Direhorn.

Around the era of Aegon the Conqueror, there was a rebellious House that went by the name of Dihorn. With a large family, and enough iron to outweapon even the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, they set it upon themselves to rid the realm of the Targaryens. Thus began 'The Secret Dance', the feud between two noble families, each powerful in their own ways.

Eventually, the Targaryen king took his dragons over to Stonehall, the ancient seat of House Dihorn, and gifted onto it the same fate that befall Harrenhall.

However, some members of House Dihorn settled quietly in the North, to form another House of the name Direhorn. Upon swearing fealty to the crown, they were granted amenity from the crimes of their ancestors, and ruled over their lands peacefully for many years.

That is, before House Bolton destroyed them.

But back to a more recent telling of events.

Ceran Direhill is the son of Roose Bolton. Taken in as a ward of the Dreadfort, his brilliance in commandeering many of the minor patrols of the nearby lands brought much prosperity, and bought the love of the common people for House Bolton. For his deeds, Roose adopted him as a bastard child of his own, and allowed for him to be raised alongside his two children Domeric Bolton and Ramsay Snow. Naturally, the three children bonded, though the constant praise of Roose did cause for Ramsay to develop a certain... distance from his brothers.

For the first month of Necem's Hold's reconstruction, the main towers were cleaned and the walls were patched up to keep out the winter cold. The surrounding forests were cleared out to prepare the necessary firewood, but Ceran employed many of the locals, on the basis that providing jobs for them would keep them happy.

And it worked. The townspeople without farms didn't have to starve, and many a young man volunteered to stay at the castle, to become one of Direhill's men-at-arms. Promise of moderate pay and food was more than enough to induce volunteers.

* * *

 **2 YEARS LATER**

 **Ceran**

12 knights from White Harbor. 65 Direhill soldiers. 153 Bolton soldiers- now sworn to House Direhill, and another three hundred or so locals ready to be called in for the militia.

Ceran was surprised to find out about the knights. It wasn't custom for men of the North to take up knighthood, so having a dozen of them at his service was quite a tactical advantage. Knights inspired the people. And people won the war.

"The King has come to the North.", said Maester Morman, who was recently assigned to Necem's Hold to serve Ceran.

Over the past two years, the once abandoned castle had been turned into a formidable fortress that could house all the people of Necem's Hold, the Dreadfort, and the neighboring towns with room to spare in time of war. Ceran made it his absolute priority to prepare the castle for any form of attack. Well, except dragonfire. But the chances of a dragon attacking were practically nonexistent. After all, they were extinct.

"Why?", Ceran asked.

"Jon Arryn is dead. The King is at Winterfell, to ask Eddard Stark to be his new Hand of the King."

Ceran felt a twinge of disappointment at the mention of Lord Arryn's death. He had hoped to meet the man that was responsible for helping create the House that Ceran currently belonged to.

Just then, one of the sentries barreled into the room, out of breath from running all the way to where Lord Direhorn was at.

"My lord! A- There's been a messenger, one of the locals with both arms cut off and a letter tied to his neck!" The sentry fumbled to undo the knot, but Ceran quickly snatched the message from him, and proceeded to just cut it off.

"What is it, my lord?", asked the maester.

Ceran growled. throwing the letter onto his desk.

"We are to give up this castle and retreat to the Dreadfort before the day is up, else _King Rayne of the True Northmen_ shall...", Ceran's voice trailed off.

"Shall what, my lord?"

Ceran looked Morman dead in the eye. "They shall hang the son of my liege lord, Brandon Stark of Winterfell."

* * *

 **A/N: [The Power of Reviews]. Said to have enough strength to bring back to life characters thought to be lost forever. Like and Follow and Review away, my dear readers!**

 **~SteelAndSnow**

 **I'm working on the next chapter as of right now. If I'm lucky, I can get it up in a few hours, if not...  
Then it's likely to be up tomorrow.**

 **\+ This story is by far my most popular one in terms of first chapter! If there are any suggestions for how to go on with it, then please do not hesitate to tell me!**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Flayed Man Sings**

 **A/N: Hah. Some familiar faces will be appearing, along with (one of) the best conversationalists in the** **Song of Ice and Fire.**

 **Eddard Stark**

3 huntsmen rushed into the tent set up for the King's Hand. Their soiled leather jerkins suggested that they'd been riding nonstop for days.

One of the Stark guards, William, stopped them. "State your business."

"We've come from Necem's Hold. We're looking for Lord Stark."

"What seems to be the problem?", Eddard asked. Since leaving his seat of Winterfell, the Warden of the North and now Hand of the King had rarely enough time for sleep, which his face clearly betrayed.

The huntsmen each looked at each other, before a man- who appeared to be their leader, stepped forward and bowed his head.

"My lord. I've been sent by Lord Direhill of Necem's Hold."

"The recently formed Northern House, I know. What is it your lord has sent you for?"

"Necem's Hold has recently become besieged by an army of bandits. We estimate their forces to be about two thousand strong, roughly 10 men for each one we have at the castle."

"He is asking me for reinforcements?"

"No, my lord. Lord Bolton is currently preparing his troops as we speak. However..."

The man lowered his gaze, seeming to be uncomfortable with the situation.

"Speak your mind freely, I'm afraid my wits cannot bear me remaining awake any longer."

"Well... the leader of the bandits, self styled as King Ranye, has demanded our surrender. He claims to have the son of the Lord of Winterfell as his captive."

Eddard snapped. He threw down his corset and grabbed the man, Gregor, by his throat. "My son, is lying in a bed as we speak. I don't know whether or not he's going to live. If your lord has sent you to tell me false, then I'll see to it he is removed from the North." He released Gregor, who began to cough from suffocation.

Just then, a soldier ran into the tent, and did a quick salute. "My lord Hand, the King and Queen ask for your presence at once!"

"What is it now?"

"He's missing!"

* * *

 **Ceran**

Their party consisted of around 7 men; all fully armed and trained to near perfection. With the life of Brandon Stark at stake, to take unnecessary risks was to be avoided.

Ser Samwell Brackel, from the Vale.

Ser Allis Raemon, from Highgarden.

Ser Robert Florence, also from Highgarden.

Ser Arthur Rosman, from Dorne. His weapon of choice being a spear caught the curiosity of the others.

The knights had all come from White Harbor, to serve Lord Dihill in the name of their respective lords. After all, it's not often that the son of minor nobility is given his own castle and sigil to bear, even more unheard of for a bastard. Whatever dealings had gone on between Roose Bolton and Jon Arryn remained a secret to this day.

Lord Ceran Direhill of Necem's Hold.

And finally, Bronn. He was a sellsword heading south from the Wall. Or at least, he claimed. While Ceran was reluctant to bring him along at first, Bronn's display of swordsmanship and ability to improvise impressed him.

And plus, even if he dies, he's just a sellsword.

"Our plan is simple. We infiltrate Rayne's camp, and we locate Brandon Stark. If by any chance we are spotted, and attacked, we are to prolong any fighting as long as possible. If anyone comes into contact with Rayne, do not engage. He is a very skilled swordsman and I would hate to lose any of you.", said Ceran.

The first clash between the Direhill men and The True Northmen had ended in severe losses on both sides. With no proper siege weapons, the bandits had to resort to infiltrating Necem's Hold through the various tunnels that led into it. Without the reinforcements from the Dreadfort, Ceran had to reduce the number of guards stationed on the wall to man the basements of the castle.

With a curt nod of understanding, Raemon and Daniel each took up a torch before heading out towards the east section of the bandits' camp. Brackel and Rosman quickly followed, each having been assigned to sabotage any means of escape- to burn down the makeshift stables for the horses and quietly take out any sentries that might endanger their plan.

 _Rayne may be a brilliant swordsman, but he's shit at warfare._

Ceran and Bronn quietly approached what looked to be the barracks. Bronn quickly took care of the 2 guards stationed outside, while Ceran used some of the brittle spear shafts to start a fire. Within seconds, they had managed to set the entire structure aflame, ridding the bandit army of their weapons and hopefully their means of escape.

"INTRUDERS!" A man drew his sword and charged towards the young lord. Ceran parried with his sheath, and smashed his pommel into his face. The man stumbled backwards, howling in pain, and Ceran stabbed his abdomen, killing him.

Without time to waste, Ceran followed Bronn away from the site. The two quickly and quietly made their way to the main pavilion, which Rayne currently used as his own quarters and office. Just barely, Ceran could make out the form of Ser Rosman dancing with 4 of the bandit soldiers. His spear was like a snake, lashing out and felling grown men as fast as lightning. Next to him, Brackel was hacking and slashing away, the standard style of fighting for Westerosi knights.

Bronn swiftly broke into the building. But before Ceran could follow him, one of Rayne's soldiers burst into the room while swinging a mace. Bronn quickly used his sword to deflect most of the attacks, but the difference in size of the two men was becoming a serious problem. The space was not enough for Bronn to maintain high mobility.

"You fight like the wench I was with last night. Fucking priceless, she was. Took my gold anyway, though.", said Bronn as he stumbled into a broken column.

The man raised his mace to deal the final blow, but Bronn pushed against the column to gain momentum, managing to get out of the way before the mace made contact with the wooden column.

And with a flourish of his blade, the not-so-gallant sellsword ended the battle.

Ceran slipped into the room, clapping Bronn on the back.

"Let's find Rayne, and slip a knife through the little fucker."

* * *

 **Petyr Baelish**

The Master of Coin was not pleased with his most recent discovery.

Roose Bolton, with the help of the crown's finance, had managed to turn a crumbling ruin into a fully operable fortress. Cementing their position as the second most influential House in the North, and further strengthening the North in general.

And the talks of Ceran Direhill, the illegitimate son of Roose Bolton now turned lord. They said that his potential as a leader could match even Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, and nothing that his spies had informed him of gave cause to doubt that.

Petyr strolled into one of his many archives. For years now, he had requested copies of every single record in the Citadel, of every book he could get his hands on from the Reach to Riverrun. Varys frequently aided in this project, as he occasionally sought to use it himself.

Jon Arryn had bestowed a castle- albeit a ruined castle, but still a castle nevertheless- to a bastard son of minor nobility. It wasn't like the Boltons were wealthy enough to perhaps bribe the old Hand, so the question of Arryn's motives was truly a mystery.

After hours of searching, Petry was just about ready to give up- when a note slipped out of the pile of letters he was reading. Prepared for anything, he lifted the sheet of paper and fixed his eyeglasses to look at the small writing.

 _Amelia,_

 _When I heard of the baby's birth, Robert and Ned had to hold me down from riding back to the North for you._  
 _I am not worthy to be called a father, but I cannot help but feel remorse for my actions- though they were made from the love of my heart._  
 _Rhaegar Targaryen is dead. Lyanna Stark is dead. It is most likely that Robert will take the throne, and he will either ask me or Ned to be his Hand._  
 _If you read this letter, make haste to Winterfell. Ned will surely help you if you present this letter to him. He is like a son to me._  
 _I'm sorry._

 _Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale_

Upon reading the name, Petyr Baelish smiled. The most interesting of all outcomes, one that Petyr didn't expect. Of course, there was indeed doubt of Ceran Dihill's origins, as Roose Bolton was not a man driven by lust. Such a man having two bastards with different women was very unlikely.

Nobody outside of this room except Roose Bolton himself, would have knowledge of this. Petyr quickly burned the note, cautious to make sure of it being destroyed.

Because in the game of thrones, knowledge is power.

* * *

 **A/N: What's up? I'd appreciate feedback, and am also accepting OC names for minor nobles. Feel free to leave suggestions and I'll implement them if possible!**  
 **If there is any confusion in these early chapters, just know that I'm preparing a twist- so be prepared! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**The Flayed Man Sings**

 **A/N: Do to a review that asks for a bit of backstory to Ceran- I'll be focusing this chapter on just that! Though this was actually supposed to be Chapter 6, I'm of the opinion that it may in fact be more necessary here.**

 **Roose Bolton**

Roose Bolton was not a kind man. No, most of the rumors of him and his family could not be considered false.

Did he flay his victims, though the practice was long since banned? Yes.

Did he rape a miller, and plant his seed in her? Yes, and got Ramsay from that exchange.

But while he could never be considered kind, he wasn't a stupid man. During Robert's Rebellion, he had proven himself as a tactician numerous times. Where the _honorable Ned Stark_ had failed, Roose served as best as he could for the North.

Not that it had done him any good. Ser Barristan Selmy had been spared, even when Roose had specifically advised his execution. Robert's refusal to punish an enemy and his blindness to see the potential of betrayal, this showed how incompetent he would be as a ruler.

Of course, Robert had no idea of what dark secrets Selmy had been keeping hidden. And Roose wouldn't disclose that particular piece of information, not yet anyway.

Then there was the matter of Ceran, Roose's other bastard son. Err, nephew.

The prodigy of the Dreadfort was no son of the Lord Bolton, though the said lord frankly wished that he was. He would have made a much better successor, anyway.

Roose remembered the first time Ceran had shown his brilliance, during Domeric's 10th name day feast...

* * *

 **-Flashback-**

 **Ceran**

The feast, was a disaster. Well at least, the preparations for it.

Two carriages from the Reach were supposed to arrive a week before. But a sudden snowstorm postponed the delivery so long, that Lord Bolton himself had to lead a group of men to escort it.

Meanwhile, the Dreadfort was in bad shape. The costs for both the food for the feast and preparing the castle for the celebration were putting a strain on House Bolton's finances. It didn't help that the Starks of Winterfell were attending.

Ceran Snow was bored. He was far too young to be doing much more than sparring with his brothers and the Stark boys. So his days were filled with boiled leather and wooden training swords. Robb was good, but _Jon_ , the Bastard of Winterfell, was his equal, if not better in swordplay. Domeric battled Robb, while Ceran and Ramsay took turns facing Jon. Ramsay's technique of swift yet ruthless attacks on his opponent's weak points, almost as if he thought his swords to be cleavers, fared well against Jon's. But Ceran knew that in a real battle, where knights would be fully dressed in plate , Ramsay would have a more difficult time fighting.

He himself, on the other hand, could barely keep up with the quicker reaction speeds of Jon. Ceran had to maintain a larger distance in his duel with the other bastard to assess his opponent. To try and find a weakness to exploit- a flaw.

And then he found it. Jon's style of fighting had him more than once forgoing his defenses to try and end the battle as quickly as possible. This either meant that he had a weak stamina, or had a natural impatience, both weakness that Ceran could exploit.

Ceran twirled around, narrowly missing Jon's upward slash, before jumping behind him. Jon rushed forward, but failed to see Ceran's outstretched leg, stumbling forward to maintain balance. Ceran seized the opportunity, stabbing Jon's armored stomach, signalling the end of the duel.

Above the courtyard, Lord Eddard Stark was watching the children fight. Domeric had fared well at first, but Robb overpowered the Heir to the Dreadfort after a while. Ramsay and Ceran had each managed to beat Lord Stark's bastard son Jon, but Ceran had done so in a more impressive way. Eddard began to clap, slowly, thoroughly impressed by the boys. And he began to wonder what it would be like to have Ceran Snow as a ward of Winterfell... to perhaps continue as a sparring partner for his sons.

* * *

When Roose Bolton returned to the Dreadfort, with the carriages of the Reach, he was surprised to hear that Ceran and Ramsay were not present for the midday meal. After the duel between the boys of the lords, the two bastards of Bolton had vanished. After thinking about what to do, Roose left to attend to his responsibilities, numerous as they were.

* * *

"If our lord father finds out we smuggled steel blades from the armory, he'll have our hides. We're Boltons, this is a real possibility.", said Ceran.

The two boys were trudging through the snowy forest near the Dreadfort, armed with steel longswords almost as tall as themselves, and the boiled leather armor from earlier. Ceran had the sense to grab a torch, so the two boys wouldn't freeze to dead, and a quiver of arrows, for Ramsay had only brought 4 for his bow.

Oh, and Ramsay was a remarkable marksman.

"Father would want the Starks to feast on some good meat, the hunting parties won't be back until next week, and the feast is tomorrow!"

"So?"

"So we'll hunt a few stags, maybe even a bear, and we'll bring the meat back to the castle."

"That has to be one of the stupidest ideas you've ever had. And I'm your brother, I know everything stupid you've done."

Yet Ceran stayed, slightly eager for the hunt though not expressing it.

After an hour of following the tracks of a boar, one of the hairy ones found commonly in the North, they finally chanced upon a nest of eggs. Ramsay piled them into his sack filled with straw, and Ceran lit a small fire to burn the remnants of the nest. They didn't want the mother chasing them.

They continued after the boar, making sure to be careful with the eggs.

"There.", Ramsay pointed towards a pair of footprints, fresh enough to point to be about 10 minutes old.

Ceran drew his sword, hacking off a nearby tree branch to use as his boaring spear. The spear, no staff, was crude in comparison to the ones in the Bolton armory, but the two boys had not the forethought to bring them.

But then the rustling of a nearby bush and the howling of men startled them. They were not alone.

* * *

 **Glenn**

"야 이 시발들아. 한 명 놓치면 어떡하냐? (Oi you fuckers. How could you let one escape?)", the leader of the poachers, Glenn, snarled.

"죄송합니다! 그 새끼가 칼부림이 장난이 아니더군요... (I'm sorry! That bastard wasn't messing around with his sword...)", said one the men.

Their group was composed of several men from Essosi descent. Their language was one not recognized in but a few places, which allowed for them to engage in private conversation even with many ears around them.

While Glenn was punishing his men, their captive began to show signs of waking up. Ramsay's face was damaged in several places, his wrists tied together with bowstring.

"Let me go. Do you know who I am?"

"I don't give a _fuck_ who you are. Unless I can profit from it.", said Glenn.

"I am Ramsay Snow, son of Roose Bolton."

"A bastard."

"That doesn't make me any less his son."

"No. But it makes much less what he'd pay me for you."

"..."

Ramsay spat into the snow. Glenn smacked him across the face, and signaled for his men to take him away.

 _볼튼 공작의 자식이라... 흥미로운걸? (The offspring of Lord Bolton... Very interesting...)_

* * *

 **Ceran**

If asked to describe the hardest part of escaping the poachers, Ceran would have described the cold.

He had to drive his makeshift spear into one of the men, before using his sword to slash two others. Without giving them a chance to subdue him, he quickly scrambled into a nearby bush, not caring on where exactly he was headed.

Before long, he had managed to gain a significant amount of distance, and finally decided to rest. Since he had left his torch and fire-making tools behind, he had to wrap himself in his furs and try not to reflect on how miserable he was.

Ramsay was captured, perhaps even dead, and Ceran had no way to contact his father. On top of that, he no longer knew the means to return to the Dreadfort.

After what seemed like hours, a rustling alerted Ceran to the presence of another. It was the boar from earlier, the one which the brothers had meant to capture.

"You swine. If not for you, we wouldn't be in this mess.", he cursed. The boar looked at Ceran, it's eyes showing nothing but interest towards the boy.

Ceran held out his hand, which the boar carefully nudged. Ceran smiled, patting the boar's snout.

"Thank you.", he said, before drawing his dagger and driving it into the animal's heart.

The warmth of the carcass was a blessing. Ceran quickly cut away the inedible organs, and stuck the useful meat into the snow. Then, he carefully peeled away the skin, which he then wrapped around his furs. Though the work left him covered in blood, he was much warmer than before.

 _Now, for a plan._

He could return to where the poachers were, perhaps smuggle his brother out, assuming that Ramsay was alive.

 _No, too risky without reinforcements._

Ceran needed a way to either take out the poachers at once, or subdue them until he could rescue Ramsay.

A way to take them all out at once. All at once. Ceran began to hum to an old song he had once heard while at a feast.

It was of a southron lord who had vanquished his enemies without a single loss of his own men. And so Ceran found his answer.

While he had no river to channel, Ceran could recreate the Rains of Castamere, and show his enemies a frozen end.

* * *

 **Glenn**

Feasting on the nuts and berries they had collected from the surrounding forest, Glenn and his band were planning their next move.

The decision to either ransom the bastard of Bolton to the Lord of the Dreadfort himself, or sell him to the slavers of Meereen were their favored options. Either way, they were planning on extracting the most amount of money, from the higher bidder.

"글렌! (Glenn!)", one of the trappers yelled.

"뭐? (What?)"

"이것 좀 봐봐.(You need to come check this out.)" Glenn followed the man to one of the hare traps they had set up in the perimeter. It appeared to have been sprung, but instead of a critter being trapped in its clutches, there was a chunk of cloth, from the cloak that the other Bolton bastard had on.

"이 주위를 찾아봐, 저 새끼 꼭 잡는다. (Search the area, make sure to catch the fucker.)"

Glenn waved around his torch while scanning the forest around him. There was no trace of the boy, there was only a silence.

And smoke. The smell of smoke and the sound of crackling flames interrupted the calm.

"불이야! (FIRE!)", one of the poachers screamed. The group of men trampled over each other to stay out of reach of the flames.

Glenn shoved away his own men, only to be pushed into a crevice barely deeper than his own height. The culprit, one of the scouts, grinned before continuing on.

Glenn couldn't do anything as he was left alone, the flames impeding onto his position, choking on the smoke and eyes burning from the sparks.

Orange and white and yellow flames dancing before his eyes.

...

...

* * *

"글렌 어딨어? (Where's Glenn?)", a man asked.

"걔 자빠져서 못 구했어. (He tripped. We couldn't save him.)", said Joren, a scout.

"엿 먹어, 조렌, 네가 미는거 봤어! (Fuck you Joren, we saw you push him!)" The scouts began to shove each other, seconds away from drawing their weapons.

"아무도 애 안 챙겼나, 램세이? (Did anyone get the boy, Ramsay?)"

"묶어뒀지, 쟤 이제 타버렸어. 포기ㅎ- (We left him tied up, he's charred to a crisp now. Give it u-)"

"무슨 소리야? (What's that sound?)"

"뭐? (What?)"

"그 소리, 뭐냐고. (That sound, what is it.)"

"아무것도 안 들리는데. (I don't hear anything.)"

"도망가. (Run.)"

"뭐? (What?)"

"지금 도망치라고. (Run now.)"

The group of poachers could only cry in despair when the entrance to their cave closed. And with a sound of a snapping rope, the ceiling caved in, bringing in a thousand tons of rock and snow.

* * *

 **A/N: A bit of explanation of what just happened...**  
 **In order to save Ramsay, Ceran snuck back and scavaged his flint and tinder and started up a fire that surrounded the poachers on three sides. He made sure to control the blaze, so that Ramsay would not be more than singed. In an effort to escape the flames, the group of poachers ran into a cave, which then Ceran hatched his trap and sealed the criminals to their doom.**

 **Of course... someone survived from that group.**

* * *

~SteelAndSnow  
(I have High School Entrance Interview on Monday, so I've been practicing for that.  
I hope to get into Daewon Foreign Language High School! o)  
(Ir)regular updates after Monday (12/4/2017) so have a bit of patience for me!

Wish me luck!


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